Foot 3
By Zack Nelson-Lopiccolo

They said two weeks ago the moon
bled. It looked like a wrinkled old
man with coagulated red
drips from his eyes.

Two weeks ago, I hadn’t slept
more than three hours. Awake under
moonlight, computer light,
ignoring the audacity of hues.

Bottles piled in the corner of my room,
ignored like phone calls from
mom, and Stacy. Messages that told
me to look outside, to leave the apartment

for a few hours, get air. Instead
of licking bottles and losing my mind
in a blender memorized books.

They. They are all I can think about
the only thing I can write about laying
here naked at noon, drunk, stoned,
with nowhere to go. Except to sleep.

But I can’t, every time I close my eyes
I see a bleeding moon, pygmy cut
around a porous belly, drips
dropping into my glass like wine. An entire
work crew of men and women

drilling at grey rock, testing the depths.
I can’t sleep knowing I missed a rare
phenomenon, a moon that bled, two
weeks ago. Hidden by reddish clouds,
and I still can’t sleep.

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